Foudre
by NoiseAndSound
Summary: The fragmented existence of the Savage Nymph. Set during the events of Chain of Memories.


Title - Foudre  
Word Count - 977  
Genre - General/Introspective  
Character(s) – Larxene, Marluxia, Misc. Organization (implied), Sora (implied), Naminé  
Disclaimer - I do not own _Kingdom Hearts_ or any related characters. This was written out of pure enjoyment for the series, and no profit is being made.  
Notes – Ah, Larxene. Such an interesting character to pin down. Note that the basis of this fic comes from a statement she makes in the KH CoM manga: that having a heart was "painful." _Foudre _is the French word for lightning. I also numbered sections of the fic and purposefully put them out of order in the interest of a more abstract introspection. Feel free to read them "in order" - in descending order from XII to I (that is, XII is first and I is last). Enjoy and review if you desire. Constructive criticism is always very much appreciated.

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I.

The last time she tastes darkness, it overwhelms her, pulling and dragging in its relentless grip, marble floors stained in shadow as she drowns. The last time she tastes darkness, she screams – in agony, in disbelief, in a berating fury that she could not save herself – as the last remnant of her being vanishes into oblivion, the Wielder's eyes digging into her fading gaze.

The last time she tastes darkness, it is the _end_.

X.

She knows, in between her treks and traipses through marble passageways, the _clink_ of her heels on the marble floors and the swish of her coat against marble pillars and marble doorways and _so very monotonous and boring_ – she knows she should not be distracted. She should be fearful, shocked, reeling from the sudden blackness, the overwhelming cold. But she is not.

She is indifferent.

XII.

The first time she tastes darkness, it rips away her existence, its yellow eyes and sharp claws digging through her soul and her final screams.

The first time she tastes darkness, it is _death_.

VI.

Such a lost cause, she decides. Such better things do to, without a frantic search for unneeded emotions, useless reactions when it was so much easier to just rid oneself of the distraction altogether.

She watches the iridescent, heart-shaped moon in the sky; as empty as her own self.

XI.

"Hello."

Such a word, she thinks, such a greeting. Such proof that the unreal was real, the intangible was tangible, the ending she had so dreaded was naught but a new beginning - a thread left unkempt in an already mangled tapestry. However cut short, however wasted…_Wasted_, she thinks. _Such a good word for it_. Wasted one moment, entirely alien the next.

As alien as the figure in front of her; clad in a coat of the same monotonous black material as her own, save for the clinking metal necklace that reflected the harsh surrounding marble. He has removed his hood and she finds herself staring into his nonchalant gaze as his reverberating voice drifts and echoes through the spacious chamber. The only figure, out of several in the room, to greet her, which she notes; others stride out of one hallway and into the next, or whisper amongst themselves, or stand solitary at the massive, arcing pane of glass, through which the unclouded blanket of night stays. Save for the scarred man who shook her from her dazed state, the imposing but equally monotonous leader who infuriatingly claimed her as subordinate; and now, finding her inhabitants dreary and boring and the massive architectural structure equally so, accosted by this tall, regal figure whose brilliantly pink hair was so effectively distracting.

III.

She knows the careful structure is crumbling. She can see it in their strained faces, in their hushed conversations, in the shaking walls of Castle Oblivion as another member is eradicated. Such a failure, such a useless ploy! And so she giggles inanely, as sporadic flashes of lightning dance across the replica's prone form, as control recedes back into her grasp.

VII.

The second time she tastes darkness, it crackles with electricity and burns fiercely in her own rage, her sharp weapons tearing easily through the shadows; a morbid, empty sense of pleasure fills her and she screams in fury, all decorum forgotten, as crystalline shards of light she does not want dissipate into the starless black sky.

The second time she tastes darkness, it is _power_.

VIII.

"Why?"

"What else can be done? Or so he says. The lowest in the echelon; subordinates, neophytes. Is it not our only goal, our only task, the only action that may bring us to what we desire so dearly?"

She hears the sarcasm in his voice, the layer of disdain beneath his feigned interest.

"Not that there was anything worth returning to."

"Oh? You do not wish to regain your heart?"

Affronted, she regards his questioning nature with distaste, green eyes glinting. "Pain," she sneers. "Why should it burden me anymore? They can return to their perfect little worlds. Perhaps…I am better off without it."

And Marluxia smiles his mysterious smile, as the flower of a plan unfolds.

V.

There is something in Roxas that bothers her, a small, grating dagger that digs against her conscience. So different from her own callous detachment, and yet she does not bother with him; he is irrelevant to her, like so many of the Organization. Nothing but a prying, intrusive little boy.

She doesn't know how wrong she is.

IV.

There comes a time when Marluxia, in all his long-winded talks of systemic power and alluring domination, becomes nothing more than a figure in her peripheral vision. Even comrades in arms, she decides, are oh so expendable.

II.

_Bring him to his own agony_, she decides. _Foolish boy, foolish memory witch. Toy with him. Taunt him. _

Naminé's cerulean eyes are wide, frightened; the girl's hands toy with her sundress, delicate fingers and wrists so easily shattered, but she must resist; she wants – _needs_ – to see the pain in the witch's eyes as her hero breaks.

_End him_.

IX.

She is still acid and fire and sadistic smiles, but it is a ploy. She is empty, as empty as her title; a word, a number, inherent to the organization of this _Organization_. It is on Marluxia's lips, on his charmed welcome, engraved on the doorway to her spartan quarters, engraved into the last remnant of her being.

"Number XII. _Larxene_."


End file.
